


The Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone (1904)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [216]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Scotland, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The first of four cases from our final year in Baker Street, and we travel to the beautiful Galloway region in south-west Scotland, where a scarecrow holds the secret to a murder.





	The Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone (1904)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



Ten long days apart from Sherlock, and at the end it had been just too much to bear. When the telegram had arrived, telling me that he would be on the first train up from London that Monday morning and indeed was probably already on his way, I felt like a little boy whose Christmases had all come at once. My brother put up with me for an impressive five whole minutes before telling me I was being an idiot, and taking me down to the station where he put me on the first southbound train for Doncaster (I could have just reached Peterborough, but would only have had ten minutes in hand, and I had this terrible fear that I might miss the love of my life and have to wait even longer). Finding Sherlock in that compartment had been like coming home.

Moments later, we were both coming home (sorry!). I had the blue-eyed bastard back, and I was determined never to let go of him again. All was right with my world, even if he had been inveigled into some case during our separation, and I would have to write it up for him – his handwriting was one of the few that made my own look comparatively legible! I could even endure my brother's and sister-in-law's teasing as long as I had Sherlock. Which I did. 

Repeatedly!

Sherlock’s present to me that year had been a replica of an original Winchester 1866 rifle, with a personal engraving of both our names on the butt (I had always liked that company's guns, although I did not know quite why). My present to him was a gold chain with a blue sapphire at the end, which I had seen him eye in the jeweller’s shop in Baker Street (it was so nice that my writings not only brought him the fame that he deserved, but also enabled me to treat him to good things). My nephews and niece had gone to Jessica's parents for the New Year, so it was just the four of us for the last few days, which was nice in its own way. Much as I loved being Uncle John (and Sherlock always blubbered so adorably whenever one of the children called him Uncle Sherlock!), an adult Christmas, our last before we would decamp next September to our new hideaway, was wonderful. True, we could still visit them for the festive season thereafter, but it felt like this was in some way a defining moment. Just nine months to get through without any hiccups, and we were there.

+~+~+

As it happened, we did not make it nine days. We had been due to travel back to London on the evening of Saturday the second (the night sleeper, though I did not plan on sleeping much!), but on New Year’s Day a friend of Sammy’s called, hoping to persuade him to help elicit our aid. He could not believe his luck that we were actually there in the house. Neither, for rather different reasons, could I!

I had been in the middle of reading a most enjoyable piece in the local newspaper about the government’s clamping down on those terrible 'automobile' death-traps – officially-sanctioned number-plates and a twenty miles per hour speed limit, which seemed fair enough – when the Reverend Reuben Carroll arrived. He was a small, nondescript fellow of about fifty years of age, clearly quite nervous but also very determined. 

“I was hoping that you gentlemen might take an interest in a rather difficult matter that is coming about in my home parish”, he began. 

His accent was definitely Scots, I thought, but not the harsher tones of the central and north. Most definitely a Borderer. 

“Where is that?” Sherlock asked.

“The village of Mazarin, just north of the town of Kirkcudbright”, he said.

That explained the accent, I thought. The Gallovidians had been a late edition to the Scottish kingdom, having been wrested from the ancient English land of Northumbria and then fought over for many centuries thereafter. Sherlock and I had passed through the area after our sole Irish adventure many years back, and I had liked it but found it cold. My friend Sir Peter Greenwood (who like someone else I could mention did not seem to feel the cold like normal mortals) had taken a small cottage at a place called Whithorn in Wigtownshire, and had told me that he loved the area.

“What is the problem?” Sherlock asked.

“The local landowner, Lord Fleet”, our visitor said. “He owns nearly all the land south and east of the village, and recently he purchased a block of land between his estate and the railway line, so as to enable him to safely have hunting parties in his woods. Unfortunately he has trampled over local sensibilities in the process; the villagers used that land to access the river, and now they cannot reach it, at least not without a long detour. He has threatened to shoot anyone who tries to cross it, and they have responded with attacks on his fences and hedges. It is not too serious as yet, but the gentlemen on both sides are hot-headed, and I fear that matters may well escalate.”

“Why do you think that we could help?” I asked curiously. 

“Lord Fleet is a great admirer of your literature, doctor”, he said earnestly. “I was hoping you might talk to him, and persuade him to at least grant access across the land on a set path. The villagers are being led in their opposition by the owner of the sole tavern, Mr. Alan Dallas, and he is determined to ‘push back the local nob’, as he rather bluntly puts it.”

“This does sound rather interesting”, Sherlock said. “I am sure that the capital's criminal fraternity would not object to our absence for a few more days. If the good doctor has no objection, then we will accompany you back across the Border.”

“Of course not”, I lied. The vicar beamed.

“Thank you”, he said, evidently relieved.

+~+~+

It was one of the downsides of the railway network that the journey from York to Mazarin, though roughly the same in distance as that from the northern capital to London, took considerably longer. Of course it was four trains rather than one; the North Eastern Railway to Newcastle and then Carlisle (taking us through Hexham, which brought back memories of the surprising Mr. Fairdale Hobbs and the terrifying Max), then the Glasgow & South Western Railway, first to Castle Douglas before a tiny single-coach branch-line train took us to Mazarin Halt, about halfway to its eventual destination of Kirkcudbright.

I have to say that I took a great liking to Kirkcudbrightshire as a county on my re-acquaintance with it. Even though we were officially in Scotland, the countryside was far gentler than I was used to from my previous travels north of the Border, and even the railway seemed unhurried, serving to link its many towns and villages to the main line and the outside world, but at its own pace. If it had not been for the cold, I would have seriously considered retiring here instead of Sussex. Then I thought of that wonderful cottage on the Downs, and I smiled to myself.

Mazarin itself was, to be honest, something of a let-down given its beautiful surroundings, a rather dour village of grey stone buildings, set about a quarter of a mile from the halt which served it. My impression of it was probably not helped by a steady drizzle from an overcast sky, which cast a heavy pallor over the land beneath. There was certainly no missing Mazarin Hall, which squatted above the village on a shallow hill. The River Dee ran beneath the railway just south of the halt, then turned away to enter some rather dark-looking woods. There was a single standing stone set some way back from the riverside, and somewhat ominously, several men gathered around it. And close by, rather oddly, a scarecrow; odd because there appeared to be no crops in the field. The three of us walked over to the gathering.

“This is Constable MacLean”, the priest said, gesturing to a rotund middle-aged policeman. “Jacob, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. From London!”

The way he said it, we might as well have been from Mars. The constable nodded dourly at us.

“You come too late, gentlemen”, he said grimly. “It’s blood now.”

“Blood?” the vicar gasped. “What? Who?”

“Our Mr. Dallas”, the constable said. “Found shot dead in the field this morning, right by the Mazarin Stone.”

“Gentlemen”, Sherlock said firmly, “I think that we are achieving little out here other than to get soused by your Gallovidian weather. May I suggest that we adjourn to somewhere drier, and we can discuss what has happened? And of course, for the doctor to examine the body.”

“Maybe dry”, the constable said, “but I dare say he mayn’t look over poor Mr. Dallas. His daughter flipped when I suggested even getting Doc Ross in town to come up and take a look.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said, as we began walking back to the village. “One might have thought that she would be keen to pursue her father’s killer. But as the police officer on duty, you do have the right to insist.”

“That’d be a London way of thinking”, the constable said flatly. “You’d be away back to the Great Wen in a few days, sir; I have to spend the rest of my life here with these people. Upsetting them isn’t wise.”

“I see your point, constable”, Sherlock said. “Let us see if Miss Dallas can be persuaded to co-operate. But before we approach her, we shall establish the facts of what happened, and proceed from there.”

+~+~+

The constable looked pointedly at the vicar. The four of us were sat in the police station, to which we had adjourned. The vicar nodded.

“I suppose I had better start by explaining the area”, he said. “The Mazarin Stone is probably as old as Stonehenge, but is a solitary standing stone set in a field by the river for reasons as yet unknown. We have made some digs around it to see if there were ever any other stones nearby, but have found nothing. The thing is huge, and not of any rock type found in this area, so it must have either been rolled or floated here. The local legend is that the ancient peoples regarded it as a fertility symbol, and even today some villagers still swear by it.”

The constable coughed pointedly. The vicar reddened.

“Sorry”, he said. “I get carried away with my history. The point is that the stone is almost exactly in the middle of the field that the estate purchased recently, and the path across the field goes right up to it, then around it before continuing. It used to be the village common before it was enclosed, so the people feel, rightly or wrongly, that it is theirs by right. And of course they can no longer access the lower parts of the river – at least, not without a long walk round Lord Fleet's lands.”

“Highly impractical”, Sherlock said, turning to the constable. “Why the scarecrow? His presence there seems somewhat redundant.”

The vicar blushed again.

“He was set up there when all this confrontation started”, he said. “Whoever did it dressed him in clothes similar to the ones His Lordship prefers, and even gave him a wig the same colour.”

“Probably annoyed them that he decided to let it be there”, the constable observed. “Reminds them whose field it is, I suppose.”

“Please tell us about the circumstances of the crime”, Sherlock said.

“The victim was found by Miss Dallas herself, out for her regular morning constitution”, the policeman said. “Most distressing for her. She had the good sense not to touch the body, thankfully, and I only had a brief glimpse, but I think he had been out there all night. And there is something else. His Lordship had a hunting party into yesterday evening, and they were shooting down in the woods. He put up a red flag on the fence around the edge, but someone tore it down.”

“So we must examine the body”, Sherlock said firmly. “Onto Miss Dallas.”

+~+~+

The constable had, if anything, understated matters. Miss Dallas refused point blank to allow anyone to look at her father’s body. At least, until Sherlock started on her.

“I do not wish to add to your distress, madam”, he said in the sort of tone which implied ‘though I am about to’, “but in fairness, I must point out that your father was clearly trespassing when he was shot. Of course I would not expect Lord Fleet to want to cause you any further grief than you have already suffered, but we must consider that a crime has taken place on his property, and that he therefore has an interest.”

She stared at him in horror.

“You are saying that he would force an examination?” she exclaimed. “That is vile!”

“I am saying that we can circumvent such a thing if you would allow my friend the doctor to perform an examination”, Sherlock said soothingly. “He would accord your father all the dignity that he deserves, and he could then be laid to the rest that he has doubtless well earnt.”

She still looked fearful, but nodded her assent. I went to get ready.

+~+~+

“Well?” Sherlock asked when I had finished. 

It had been a nervy examination, with Miss Dallas and a fellow that I had learnt was Mr. Alexander Lyon, the estate manager and a distant cousin of hers, waiting outside, presumably in case I started issuing tickets or something! Their lack of faith was irritating, but I was a professional and I did my job regardless. Once I had finished, I went to find Sherlock.

“Cause of death was a bullet to the heart”, I said. “But there is something strange.”

“Go on”, he said.

“The man was shot twice”, I said. Sherlock looked curiously at me.

“What is strange about that?” he asked.

“One shot was fired at close range; I found scorching around the entry wound, and the bullet must still be inside him as there was no matching exit wound. But he was also shot at a range of some distance, for I found a single exit-wound on his back. It is hard to say, but judging from the size of the wound, I would estimate it must have been from at least the edge of the field. Unfortunately I cannot say which shot came first, although logically I would suppose the distant one to be more likely.”

“Which given the poor visibility that morning, implies a most skilled shooter”, Sherlock said. “I need your professional estimation of something. Would the local doctor have spotted that, had he been allowed to examine the body?”

I thought for a moment.

“I doubt it”, I said. “Especially if he had had that woman and her watchdog pressuring him like I had. And even if he had found it, he might have felt compelled not to make an issue of it. I suppose that, like the constable, he has to live with these people after we are gone.”

“This is serious”, Sherlock said. “We will sanction the release of the body to Miss Dallas tonight, but I think we might be better finding lodgings in Kirkcudbright, and coming here to resume our investigations tomorrow. We will not divulge the closer bullet; we will only say that you think that he was shot at a distance.”

I nodded. I could see that divulging the close shot would imply that the victim may have known his attacker, which would only incite further speculation about the death.

+~+~+

The next day we visited Mazarin Hall, the home of Lord Fleet, who was pleased to welcome us. He was about forty-five years of age, and I could see at once why someone had applied a dark wig to the scarecrow. It had almost been as bad as the 'thing' that was apparently squatting on the top of the nobleman's head. I wondered whether, if I waved a biscuit in its direction, it might sit up and beg.

Sherlock was looking at me again!

Less pleased to see us, quite clearly, was his son and heir Mr. Thomas Fleet, a young man of about twenty years of age, who made his opinion as to our presence quite clear. We were spared the wrathful presence of the watchful estate manager Mr. Lyon, as he was down in the village with his cousin Miss Dallas.

“Sandy has split loyalties”, Lord Fleet said, “being my employee and Charlotte’s cousin. But I made it clear that at times like these, his place is with family, not business.”

I noticed that Mr. Fleet shuffled awkwardly for some reason. 

“That was very high-minded of you”, Sherlock said. “Are they close cousins?”

“I do not think so”, our host said. “Third or fourth, I believe. Their mothers are good friends, though.”

“Please tell us about the field with the Mazarin Stone in it”, Sherlock said.

“A lot of superstitious mumbo-jumbo”, Mr. Fleet snorted. “This is the twentieth century, for Heaven’s sake, yet they still believe in that rubbish. Father has been trying to buy the field for ages, but the owner refused to sell right up to his death last year. Fortunately his executors accepted a more than fair price for it, but of course the villagers complained that they'd lost access to the Sands.”

“What are the Sands?” I asked.

“That is the area around a small house owned by Mr. Creighton Dallas, the dead man's brother”, Lord Fleet said. “Now the only bit of property round here we do not own; he can only access it by a road that goes under the railway and then doubles back by the station. I suppose that his brother was on his way to visit him when he was killed.”

“We should definitely talk to this gentleman”, Sherlock said. “Would you mind if we explored the vicinity of the field today, sir? I am afraid that the constable and his men have almost certainly trampled on any evidence there may have been around the stone, but we may still find something.”

“If the doctor signs my books before he leaves”, the nobleman smiled, “that is fine!”

+~+~+

“We shall go to see Mr. Creighton Dallas first”, Sherlock said, “since we can work round the three sides of the field afterwards, and finish by the halt.”

“That makes sense”, I said as we walked away from the big house. “What do you think of the case so far?”

“I think that this may have been a very cleverly planned and well-executed murder”, he said grimly. “And proving it may be all but impossible!”

We quickly reached the small and somewhat tumbledown cottage by the river. There was no road here, just a wooden bridge over the river to a path on the other side that almost immediately passed under the single-track line leading down to Kirkcudbright. Mr. Dallas was out in his garden, repairing a bench. He was a large red-headed fellow, very solidly built unlike his wiry late brother. He stood up as we approached, regarding us warily as if preparing for battle.

“You’d be the gentlemen from London”, he said slowly. “You’d best come in.”

We followed him into the small cottage, which was typical of many such bachelor places I had seen before. I wondered what Sherlock was going to ask this man, so once again, he surprised me.

“The doctor has found certain irregularities in the death of your brother”, he said. “It appears that he was shot at some distance, yet there are also indications that he was shot close at hand. Apart from yourself and his daughter, is there anyone else he would allow to get close to him, or for that matter, who might have motive to do such a thing?”

Mr. Dallas thought for a moment.

“No”, he said flatly. “It wasn’t just that Alan kept a good house; even the drunks that he threw out respected him for keeping order. He hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

I refrained from stating the obvious fact that he must have acquired at least one somewhere along the line. 

“The shot from distance must have been fired with considerable accuracy”, Sherlock said. “Without wishing to cast aspersions, who is the best marksman in the area?”

“Undoubtedly Mr. Thomas Fleet”, our host said without hesitation. “Mr. Lyon trained him to start with, but then he went off to Dumfries and enrolled in some fancy school there. He could probably shoot the weathercock off the church all the way from the Hall, if he was so inclined.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“I understand that Lord Fleet has made you an offer to purchase this cottage”, he said. “May I be so bold as to ask what your intentions are in that direction?”

The man looked at him warily. 

“I suppose I shall have to sell eventually”, he said. “I have for some time entertained thoughts about emigrating to the United States. Only my brother was keeping me here, and he is gone now.”

“I know that some transatlantic liners call in at Belfast, which is easily reached from Portpatrick, not far from here”, Sherlock said conversationally. “Well, I wish you good luck if you do decide to make the great move.”

There was something unspoken between the two men, but I could not tell what it was. We made our farewells, and left.

+~+~+

“What motive could young Mr. Fleet have had?” I wondered as we walked back to the corner of the Mazarin Stone field. It was almost lunch-time, but a fog hung over the place blotting out much of the light, and the stone protruded eerily against the skyline.

Sherlock seemed unusually thoughtful, and did not answer. Instead he led me back to the field in order to begin our examination of the area. We started at the riverside, and worked our way along one side of the field without finding anything. Halfway along the second side was where the path from the Hall crossed a gap in the hedge. Sherlock stopped and looked consideringly across at the stone in the distance. 

“The stone, and therefore the place the body was found, is about twenty yards from here”, he said. “From the angle, which way do you think that the victim would have been facing when he was shot.”

I thought back to my examination. 

“Towards the village”, I said firmly, before I suddenly thought of something. “But he cannot have been. His brother did not say anything about his visiting him before the shooting, so where was he coming from? Unless his brother was lying?”

Sherlock led the way around the edge of the field. He seemed lost in thought.

“He cannot have been shot from the village”, I said reasonably. “Even using a gun that was quieter than most, they would have heard it down there and immediately have come running. So he must have been facing away from the village, for the shot to come from the other direction. That way, anyone who did hear it might assume that it came from the woods which lay beyond. But I still do not see how it could have happened.”

“He he was made to turn before he was shot”, Sherlock said. 

He gestured to one of the posts on the stile leading to the Hall, and looking closer, I could see that someone had cut a groove in the top. A groove that would be ideal for a gun-rest.

“Do you know who did it?” I asked.

“Yes, I do”, he said grimly. “But proving it depends on whether the next person I question can provide me with the evidence.”

He strode across the field to the stone, but passed it and instead went to the scarecrow. I stared at him in confusion, then he reached inside the thing's coat and pulled something out. It was a bullet. 

I stared at it in shock.

“The second shot”, he said gravely. “If we hurry, we can catch the midday train down to Kirkcudbright, and have lunch there. I would rather not be around Mazarin for the next few days.”

I was puzzled, but followed him anyway.

+~+~+

Our inn in Kirkcudbright was basic but functional, and we had adjoining single rooms with a connecting door, which was good. I was not surprised therefore when Sherlock came to my room that night, and I smiled as he stood at the far end of the bed, slipping off his dressing-gown.

“I could do with a bed-warmer”, I grinned.

He gave me a feral look.

“I think some of that legend about the stone granting increased fertility may have been true after all”, he growled, his eyes dark with passion. “I am feeling the effects right now!”

“Well, I doubt that even you can get me pregnant!” I chuckled. “Come on in!”

He knelt at the end of the bed and reached for my entrance, then grinned. The base of the vibrator was there.

“You bad boy, doctor”, he said reprovingly. “I was looking forward to opening you up. Now I shall have to find that pleasure some other way.”

I grinned and waited for him to remove the vibrator and get down to business. I got the shock of my life when, after he had placed it beside us both, he hoisted my legs up and started applying his tongue around my entrance.

“Oh fuck!” I gasped.

“Eventually”, he grinned, his clever tongue forcing its way inside my ready hole. “But appetizers always come before the main course.”

And come I did, even before he was inside me, so hard my eyes watered. He paused in his attentions and grinned at me from between my legs. Then, to my annoyance, he slid the vibrator back in and began to move up my chest, licking away my come as he did so. I groaned in anticipation, and he gently bit one of my nipples, making me hard again in short order. He chuckled.

“I wonder if I can get you to come a second time without even being inside of you?” he mused. I was about to object when I felt his hand tickling at the base of my cock, teasing my prostate from outside whilst the vibrator nudged it from within.

I came again, this time more feebly but catching him across the face. He grinned at me, then removed it and began to rub it into his skin, scenting himself from me. 

“Sherlock!” I hissed. 

“I think twice is enough for one night, John”, he said, edging backwards. “I had better leave you with that inside you, so you can recover....”

I growled fiercely, and dragged the vibrator out myself, not even noticing the pain. 

“If you do not get inside me in the next sixty seconds”, I snarled, “I am withholding sex for a week!”

He gave a dirty chuckle.

“I doubt you could withhold it for a minute, John”, he teased. “But, as you wish.”

And with that he sheathed himself inside of me in one swift movement, and came almost at once, sighing his release into the darkness of the room. My cock twitched feebly, but there was no way I was going to manage three orgasms in so short a time-frame, and I had to be content to just lie there whilst he gently pulled out and draped himself over me, before almost immediately falling fast asleep.

I was happy. So very, very happy.

+~+~+

A week passed, and Sherlock did not seem to actually _do_ much. The only development of note was that Mr. Creighton Dallas did decide to sell his cottage to Lord Fleet, and announced his intention to follow his dream to the United States after his late brother's funeral. That event was well-attended in the village, I understand, although for obvious reasons Sherlock and I stayed away. The upside of that was that the fertility effects of the stone continued to work their magic, which was wonderful except for those times when I sat down too quickly.

It was January the tenth when I (very gingerly) came down to breakfast at our hotel to find Sherlock looking grave.

“There has been a further incident at the Mazarin Stone”, he said. “Two deaths this time. Miss Dallas and Mr. Lyon.”

“We must go at once!” I said.

“Calm yourself, doctor”, he said. “Constable MacLean has arranged for a sergeant to come up from the town police station, and he will be calling in half an hour to take us, rather than wait for the first train of the day. We just have time for breakfast.”

I was relieved at that, for I was rather hungry, though I suspected that the crispy bacon that this place served may just have encouraged Sherlock to delay our departure. I devoured my own food quickly, and we were waiting outside when a police carriage drew up. The man inside was Sergeant Glenmarrick, and he was visibly relieved to see us.

“This is very bad, gentlemen”, he said. “Three deaths, all by the stone. People are talking.”

“I doubt there is any power on earth that would stop that, sergeant”, Sherlock said. “I hope an examination of the bodies will yield some clues, though I do have a fairly good idea as to what happened. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. We shall see what we shall see.”

It was another cold Gallovidian morning, and our journey was slowed by the heavy fog, but we eventually turned off the main road and along the by-road down into Mazarin. I found the bumpy road particularly uncomfortable, and matters (along with the ache in my poor backside) were not helped by someone's knowing smirk. We passed over the railway and stopped by the field, where the village constable was standing some distance from the stone.

I quickly examined the bodies. Mr. Lyon had been shot in the chest, at some distance again as there was no scorching, whilst Miss Dallas, some two yards away, had been shot in the back, presumably whilst trying to flee. Sherlock looked at the two bodies with that expressionless look on his face that told me he was hiding something. I knew him well by now.

A sudden pain in my backside when I turned too quickly reminded me that yes, I 'knew' him very well indeed!

“Has someone tried to contact Mr. Creighton Dallas?” Sherlock asked, mercifully dragging my mind out of its seemingly preferred location in the gutter. The constable shook his head.

“He left last night, taking the train to Castle Douglas”, he said. “He was definitely gone before all this went down; Harker, stationmaster at the junction, saw him on his way.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Let us go to the police station”, he said. “It is bitterly cold here. And once we are in the warm, I may have some ideas as to who has committed this crime.”

“You have a solution?” the sergeant asked.

“I have two!” he said.

+~+~+

“Gentlemen, I promised you two solutions to this crime”, Sherlock said, sitting before a roaring fire, “and two you shall have. Which one you choose to reveal to the public is up to you, of course, but please hear me out fully before deciding.”

“Of course”, the sergeant said.

“Very well”, Sherlock said. “My first solution is a little rough, but it covers the facts. A certain fanatical Irish nationalist recently escaped from a London jail, and sought a part of the country where he could lie low for a time, whilst having a chance of crossing to the Emerald Isle. Having made sure he was seen in the Liverpool area, and making police think he was looking to make the crossing there, he came north and headed for Portpatrick. Unfortunately his hiding-place was disturbed, first by Mr. Alan Dallas, and later by his daughter and Mr. Lyon. All three paid for their mistakes with their lives, the terrorist then making his escape from the area.”

The two policemen stared at him incredulously.

“That's it?” Constable MacLean asked.

“It seems unlikely”, the sergeant agreed. “Where was he hiding, exactly?”

“It is just a possible solution”, Sherlock said. “As is my other one. But I think you will like that somewhat less. Very well.”

He hesitated before continuing.

“The doctor put his finger on the nub of the problem of Mr. Alan Dallas' murder when he remarked that the victim must have been moving away from the village at the time of his death, because the gun shot had to come from that direction to strike him in the chest. Now, the day was dark, cold and wet, and the man would have had no inclination to linger, yet he turned and faced the other way. I believe that Mr. Creighton Dallas spoke the truth when he said that his brother did not visit him that soggy morn, so why did he turn back?” Plus there is the fact that Mr. Alan Dallas was shot both at a distance and close to. Seemingly that makes little sense. Either he was shot by someone who he allowed to get close to him, or by an excellent distance shooter. And we know that there is an excellent marksman in the area.”

“Mr. Fleet”, I said. Sherlock shook his head.

“I was thinking of the man who first trained him, Mr. Lyon”, he said. “I think that the two shots were meant to mislead, to throw confusion upon confusion, as it were. The distance shot is the important one, and I believe that that was the first of the two. Now, it is not easy to shoot a man in poor visibility on a cold, wet morning, even if one is an excellent shot – but in this case, the shooter had help. Mr. Alan Dallas stopped and turned at that stone, and stood there waiting because he saw someone that he knew coming after him. He did not, you will note, draw his knife, as he would have done had he felt the least bit threatened. Unfortunately for him the person coming up from the river was merely the distraction, there to give the shooter time to fix on a stationary target. Probably the last thing that the victim saw in this world was that distraction - his own daughter - watching him die.”

“What?” we all exclaimed.

“The second shot proved his killers' undoing”, Sherlock said. “It had been meant merely to confuse, but the bullet passed clean through the victim and ended up embedded in the nearby scarecrow, leaving a slight mark on the coat to betray its passing. The killers' hurried search for it in the long wet grass was therefore fruitless, and they had to leave the area. Miss Dallas made it home unseen, and soon after took her regular morning constitutional, 'finding' her father's body. She insisted on no examination, even though she was fairly sure that the local doctor would not find anything, or even if he did, he would keep quiet and say nothing. Imagine her annoyance when the local vicar, whom she probably knew was seeking my aid, returns with the two of us just after the shooting. She had hoped to have her father laid to rest before we arrived.”

“But who then shot her and Mr. Lyon?” I asked.

“Mr. Creighton Dallas”, he said. “As I had known that he would.”

“Wait a minute”, the constable said. “Mr. Creighton had left the area. And I told you, Harker saw him at the junction.”

“I would suggest that he took the train to Castle Douglas Junction and that his ticket was through to Portpatrick”, Sherlock said. “He simply alighted at the first station, Crossmichael, and walked back here. It is but a few miles across country, nothing to someone with his stamina. He would then have time to return to Crossmichael and slip into the next train 'on the blind side' whilst it was at the platform. A near-perfect alibi.”

“What did you mean, 'you had known that he would'?” the sergeant asked. Sherlock looked at him gravely.

“Consider the evidence, sergeant”, he said slowly. “There is next to none. No jury would have convicted – but when I told Mr. Creighton Dallas certain facts, he very quickly pieced together that his niece and her cousin-cum-lover had killed his brother. Having access to his brother's house, I would say that he mounted a search for the gun that was used, and when he found it, he knew.”

“He knows that a jury would likely be deterred from convicting a poor young woman, or at worst, might even spare them both because of the uncertainty involved as to who was most to blame. He most probably arranged to meet one of them by the stone where they killed his brother, and sent the other to them with a message that he could not make it. Once they were there, he confronted them with what they had done, and shot them both in quick succession. He is probably on his way to Ireland and then the United States, as he said he would.”

“You may of course wish to pursue him – or you may choose my first solution, in which case the doctor and I would back you up with the local people.”

The sergeant looked at the constable and hesitated.

“It's justice”, the constable said slowly. “He's right. They'd have gotten away with it.”

The sergeant nodded, and turned back to Sherlock.

Will you stay here one more day and help spread the news about our 'fugitive'?” he asked.

“Of course”, Sherlock smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

Eight months to go.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Mr. Creighton Dallas made it to the United States, where he settled into the life of an estate manager in rural North Dakota. He died in 1920, and a clause in his will led his executors to send a note of thanks to Sherlock and myself for our actions that time in Galloway, and to request publication of this story.

+~+~+

Next time, some horrible blue-eyed soon to be ex-friend of mine is deliberately and cruelly misleading, and I most definitely do not end up in the South of France!


End file.
